


Restless Patience

by infinityonfic



Series: Thranduil and Wifey Oneshots [2]
Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-15
Updated: 2015-01-15
Packaged: 2018-03-07 16:14:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 715
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3176989
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/infinityonfic/pseuds/infinityonfic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The weather is worsening and Thranduil has yet to return to Mirkwood.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Restless Patience

“The weather’s getting harsh,” she sighed, staring anxiously out the window.

Legolas fixed his sleeve and looked to his mother. “He’ll be back before it gets too bad,” he assured. It was redundant, as both of them knew he would return as he did every time. Thranduil never let something as trivial as weather delay him, but the anxiety that dwelled on his wife’s mind never retreated. She was always worried that one day he wouldn’t return, not later, not ever.

A cold wind rushed into the room, forcing her to cling her robe around herself tighter. If she were alone, she would be wearing Thranduil’s, but she’d hate for her concern to rub off on her son.

“Come on,” Legolas said, shutting the window and taking his mother by the shoulders. “There’s company at the dinner table that awaits our presence.”

She waved her hand dismissively. “I’m not hungry. You go, and give them my apologies.”

Legolas paused momentarily in hopes of persuading her to join him, but he knew better. He squeezed her shoulder in a gesture of solidarity before taking his leave.

Immortality was weary. You could live for thousands of years, but the responsibility of protecting others never waned; if anything it became a heavier burden. It wasn’t as if the elves weren’t willing to go to battle; most of them had likely outlived any mortals that were fighting their own battles and they were aware of their fortune. It just meant that any scars obtained in battle that were overcome would remain until death.

Such was the fate of Thranduil. She still remembered the first time he’d let the illusion wear off, revealing the severe injury on one side of his face. One eye was completely white, likely blinded. That night he was too exhausted to hold up the illusion, and as they lay in bed she couldn’t avert her eyes.

Thranduil wouldn’t have slept had it not been for the pure fatigue that settled deep in his bones from the relentless battles that had been fought along that journey. His wife, however, hadn’t slept at all. Some naïve part of her had believed that if she stayed awake all night, she would be able to protect him from any further harm.

She’d never asked if he could see through the damaged eye, and he never told. It wasn’t spoken of after that night, and she rarely ever saw the wound again. The only times she did was when she woke up earlier than usual and caught Thranduil staring in the mirror, though his gaze always seemed to extend to another dimension, never really fixed on his own reflection.

She hadn’t slept well the night before and the exhaustion began to take its toll on her. While she awaited her husband’s return, she lay on the bed, mind slowly calming until sleep pulled her away from reality.

~

It was only a light press of lips to her forehead, but it was enough to wake her.

“Thranduil,” she whispered. She saw his lips turn in an endearing smile and took a moment to cherish it. She brought a hand up to his cheek, being careful to not touch the wounded side. He pressed his face into her palm slightly, eyes slipping shut.

Part of her wanted to stay like that, watch him breathe with the ease that she brought him, but a rush of relief prompted her to sit up, wrapping her arms around him in a secure embrace. She exhaled shakily as Thranduil’s own arms held her to him.

“I promised you I’d return,” he said. “Of any promises I dare break, I shall never dishonour the ones I make to you.”

His voice had a smooth, soothing cadence that only she ever heard. Around his subjects, Thranduil’s voice would be laced with authority, but with his wife, the one whom he loved so dearly, he needn’t use such a tone.

“Nîn meleth,” he whispered against her hair. “Let us sleep.”

He laid her back down on the bed and pulled the covers up over them, opening his arms to her as she shuffled closer, pressing herself back against him. Thranduil laid an arm across her, a smile ghosting over his lips as he felt her search for his hand.  

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to the power of Google I was able to find that the translation of "my love" into the Elvish dialect used by the Sindar elves SHOULD be "nîn meleth".


End file.
